they made but little headway, most of them gave up to despair, and resigned themselves, as they said, to their fate.  It was now high noon, at least so they judged from the look of the sun, and Agnes strove by every means to re-assure her fainting companions.  She spoke of the power and goodness of their heavenly Father, and besought them to unite with her in earnest petitions to the throne of grace for timely succor, or for a preparation for a speedy exit from life.  Some heard with attention, and united with agonizing earnestness in the petition, which, as it ascended from her lips, sounded like a seraph’s pleading, and surely reached the ear of the Lord God of Sabaoth.  Others listened with stolid indifference, or sullen despair.  Throughout the precious years of prosperity, that had been vouchsafed to them, they had been neglecters of the “great salvation;” and now, in the article and hour of death, they knew not how to implore his mercy, of whom they had been hitherto utterly unmindful, much less adored and loved.

At length one of the women lifted her face, haggard with care and grief, and threw a glance, preternaturally sharpened, over the wild waste of waters:—­

“I see a sail yonder,” she cried wildly.  “Look,” she cried to Agnes, “can you not see it, too?”—­but just at this moment one of the sailors, not quite so much stupefied as the others, hearing the exclamation, roused himself, and bent over the side of the boat, and instantly the frail bark was submerged beneath the waves.

Oh, what shrieks of agony filled the air.

    “Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,
    Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave.”

Agnes had carefully retained the life-preserver, which had been given to her by her friend the minister, and with the instinct of self-preservation, almost unconsciously clung to it, while her companions, less fortunate, and worn out with previous grief, one by one sank to rise no more “till the sea shall give up its dead.”

“I think,” she said, as she concluded her narrative, “I must have been in the water more than half an hour, when I espied the sail, to which my unfortunate companion had alluded, and seeing it, seemed to inspire me with new life, for I had become so exhausted and enfeebled by the waves that surrounded me, that I felt nature could not much longer survive the icy chills which thrilled through my very frame; and when I found that you had seen me, and were sailing towards me, evidently with the intention of effecting my rescue, no language can describe the varied emotions of my heart,—­joy, gratitude and hope preponderating.”

Exhausted by the effort of speaking, Agnes sank back on the rude couch, that the sailors had with kind haste prepared for her.

“Land, yonder,” sang one from the mast-head.

“I am heartily glad of it,” said the Captain, “for all our sakes, for we shall soon have a terrible storm, but especially for this poor lady’s, whose strength seems almost gone.”